


it does no good to dwell on the past

by Writerofshit (kay_samm)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Angst, FAHC, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 19:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6869809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_samm/pseuds/Writerofshit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There still exist people like Geoff, people that burn too hot and leave smoke in their wake. People whose hearts have not frozen quite yet, who consist of boiling water instead of ice, lava instead of stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it does no good to dwell on the past

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly dont know where the fuck this came from. Two sleeping pills and a shit night, I guess.

Ryan meets Geoff the way most people meet him; at a bar after 1 am. Geoff is made of slurred words and crooked smiles and disheveled suits. He backs Ryan into a dingy bathroom and reminds him that not everyone in Los Santos is cold and only looking out for themselves. There still exist people like Geoff, people that burn too hot and leave smoke in their wake. People whose hearts have not frozen quite yet, who consist of boiling water instead of ice, lava instead of stone.

What they have for a night, two, it’s nothing that will last forever. It hardly lasts a month. It’s hard and fast and far from gentle, Geoff all teeth and rushed endings. Ryan looks back on it and all he ever does is _feel_ it again. Feels the heat of Geoff’s mouth on him, feels the cold of the tile through his soft cotton t-shirt. He feels the chill on his arms and the tight coiled stress in his stomach and the bite of Geoff's nails in the back of his thighs. He smells stale cigarette smoke and his own sweat and pine in Geoff’s cologne. He tastes copper and whiskey and himself when Geoff kisses him after. He hears his own voice, hoarse and broken repeating _fuck jesus christ fuck_ like a sacrilegious prayer. He hears Geoff panting, Geoff making frankly _obscene_ noises, Geoff’s voice husky and thick, _give me a call if you’re ever in town._

It’s these things, these senses that he relives at night when he’s alone in bed wondering when the fuck his life started going- not wrong. It has not gone south quite yet, isn’t any more fucked up than it was _before,_ before Ramsey’s crew and real plans and shared apartments. It’s different, yes, but he’s not worse off. In all reality, he’s doing _better_ now, people around him who care, who have his back no matter how he may turn it on them. He has Geoff to thank, he knows.

And yet he can’t help but yearn for those days _before._ When it was just him, his reputation and a couple thousand rounds against the world. When he could take a job and be done in just a few days, take the next from that very target. He was versatile, in it for nothing more than some cash and the _thrill._ He used to fall asleep feeling his jacket on his arms and wind whipping his face, tasting mint and smelling gunpowder. Those were the seconds he dwelled upon at when he couldn’t sleep. Now he thinks of Geoff and how it could have been, if they were normal people with normal jobs and were emotionally well adjusted. He revels in the idea of going back, having that _thing_ with Geoff. He fantasizes about having _Geoff_ again.

It will do no good, he knows, to dwell on the past. It will only leave him wrung out and exhausted. He’ll wind up to invested in his own emotions, he’ll fuck up somewhere and it’ll all be over.

He fantasizes about that too.

He runs through the sequence in his mind one last time.

\---

Step zero. Geoff isn’t Geoff yet. He simply a man in a wrinkled suit with an empty glass in his hand. He’s alone at the bar and his gaze catches Ryan’s.

Step one. He gives Ryan a once over, then grins and waves him over. Ryan, who despite rumors that say otherwise, is a take-orders kind of guy. It’s what he does, what he’s always done. He doesn’t take them from one person for too long, but he will take them from anyone.

Step two. He slides onto a stool next to the guy, and the words get fuzzy there.

Steps three through seven. He cannot remember what was said, how it happened. They are details lost to time and chasing highs. He recalls the smile, the way the tattoos stood out starkly against his skin. He remembers his own grin, the gentle laughter and bumping shoulders. and,though Ryan now can’t quite recall why on earth he thought a bar would be anything close to his cup of tea, he no longer regrets the decision. He can see this going somewhere, not far, just far enough and fast enough to get off. The visuals spin but the words stay. _I’m not crazy, right?You’d be into me and you and whatever the fuck we can get away with in there?_ His own words are gone, and then they’re in the bathroom, and it’s on.

Step eight. It’s all etched there, every second between entering the stall and leaving, up to and including _I’m Geoff by the way_ in lieu of an actual goodbye.

Step nine. Rinse of the small talk and unfamiliarity, repeat again the next night.

Step ten. Forget the bar, replace with Geoff’s apartment. Repeat as desired..

Step eleven. Throw it all out.

\---

He stops there because he prefers to think of them as Geoff and Ryan, not Ramsey and the Vagabond. He does not go into how _they_ met, how a half drunken hookup became a crew. He will not mix pleasure with business. He refuses to remember the beating in his chest when he _realizes,_ when he sees Geoff’s face in file marked _Ramsey,_ and it suddenly makes sense because why wouldn’t his life be fucked up like that?

Shit, here he is, pouring over the wrong details. The way Geoff shrieks like a little fucking girl when he finds the Vagabond in his apartment. The hitch in his speech when he recognizes Ryan’s voice. _somebody wants you dead. I’m sorry._ The panic before he understands. The air cold on his face paint because _Geoff_ has seen him already even if it hadn’t been in this context. Adrenaline in his shaking hands. Worry woven into the wrinkles in the corners of Geoff’s eyes. Blown pupils nearly blocking out the brightest blue Ryan can ever remember seeing.

_I’ll help you._

_Why?_

_Just tell me what to do for you._

The vibration of the bike beneath him, roaring wind in his ears,the smell of salt in the air, and the taste of copper on his tongue. Geoff’s arms wrapped tightly around his torso, setting his back on fire, heat of leather and thrill and _Geoff_ too much for anyone to handle. Geoff’s voice, shrill and insistent screaming directions in his ear. That same fucking cologne, the smell of pine and the whiskey on his breath. Nothing of Geoff’s in his mouth, just blood from biting his own lip raw, and mint from nervously waiting in Geoff’s apartment. Fuck.  He’s running in an all too familiar way, but it’s terrifyingly new. He has never run _with,_ only _from._ He will flee anywhere with Geoff, will carry him wherever he wants to go.

Geoff’s safe-house does not belong to him, it belongs to a crew member-

And this is when Ryan must really stop. He will not bring himself to hate this crew, _his_ crew, because they all belong to one another as much as they belong to themselves. His own mistakes and hangups are not their faults, and he will not place blame on them.  Tonight he must go to sleep, must forget all of what once was. It will never be again and he can not be angry anymore. Tomorrow they will all meet and Geoff will give orders and direction, and Ryan will follow to the letter.

Despite it all, he will follow Geoff. It is simply what he has always done. 


End file.
